The Silver Hand
by caniscanemedit-bully
Summary: The Dragonborn was a female Breton named Cyra, who enjoyed alchemy and resided in a small shack south of Ivarstead. When a certain group of bandits crossed her path, she had no choice but to follow them. She found herself wrapped up in the war between The Silver Hand and the werewolves, and a strange encounter with a certain werewolf caused her to be torn between these rivals.


Cyra found herself quietly admiring the beautiful sunset across the Rift's horizon. It had been a busy day for her, as she had been wandering around the hold in pursuit of alchemy ingredients. The small farm in the back of the shack was adequate, but she lusted for new findings in alchemy, for it was her ultimate passion.

She had never really ventured from her shack, and had always lived in Skyrim – even when she was born. She often venturedto Ivarstead, a small village north, to collect resources and maybe converse with a few people. She was never really bothered in her small shack, bandits and the like not even glancing her way because she had about as many valuables as a dead skeever.

Her lifestyle was short of exciting. She practised magic occasionally, for self-defence purposes. She loved to read, but most of all, she loved potions. Most days she spent at least an hour at her alchemy table, mixing different concoctions and discovering new uses for the alchemic ingredients she grew and found. She had heard of a famous alchemist known as Sinderion, from a good Dunmer friend of hers over in the Sarethi Farm to the east. Cyra often found herself purchasing a few nirnroots from the farm before leaving, or even helping out on the farm for an hour or so.

It was 9pm now. The sun had finally set and she had decided to sleep. The day had been reasonably uneventful, a pretty average day.

"They're around here somewhere."

The grumbling of an orc came from just metres outside her shack. She had been awoken by the sudden loud sounds from outside at 2am, and she was scared.

"Over there," an Imperial male replied, a silencing tone to his voice.

Cyra sat up in her bed as silently as possible, peeking out of the small gap in the wood that she deemed her window. Instantly she noted quite a large hoard of bandits, of all races and genders, searching, prepared for a fight.

In the distance came a horrific howling, and soon after quickening shuffles in the leaves. Whatever it was, it was getting closer. It's breathing was becoming heavy, and all Cyra could do was freeze in her sitting position on her bed, staring at the event from inside her beloved shack.

There was at least ten of them, if not more. Their weapons were prepared, whether it was a blade, mace or spells.

It appeared seemingly out of nowhere, slashing down three of the bandits with just a few swipes of its paw.

A werewolf.

The dark beast was hunched over the corpses of those it had just slaughtered, and it was staring at the others with a seemingly challenging expression. She had never seen one before, only read about them. She had quite quickly deemed them awful creatures that should be cleansed from the face of Nirn. Cyra would never admit that this opinion was based from sheer terror and fear of the beasts.

More bandits rushed over with their weapons and spells ready, and more were slaughtered. Only four stood remaining, all scattered around the area.

The creature darted towards the bandit furthest from her shack, and the three others immediately sprinted towards her. They were going to hide in her home.

Cyra had no choice but to sit there and wait for them to come. Fighting the bandits would attract the beast's attention almost immediately. Praying to the gods that the bandits wouldn't attack her was her best option for survival.

A male Argonian, a female Bosmer and the male Orc she had heard talking earlier all shuffled through the narrow gap that made for her doorway.

They almost instantly spotted her curled up, shaking, on her bed. She shook her head, and none of them said a word. For noise would attract the unwanted attention of the beast outside.

The werewolf neared, but eventually passed by the shack full of terrified people.

The Bosmer turned around to directly face the shivering Cyra.

"What should we do with her?"

"I say we kill her and head back to camp," the Argonian replied, drawing his sword.

The Orc faced her directly. "What should it be, puny weakling? We either kill you now, or you come and work with us."

"What?! We take this… little Breton who clearly would barely be able to wield a dagger without help?"

Cyra had to defend herself, prove that she would be of some use to them. She wanted at least a chance of living, after all.

"I… I can make potions… good ones! And I know magic!"

"Let's just take her, if she proves useless, we rid of her. Got it?"

"Fine, but I get to rid of her if necessary."

It was disturbing how eager the Bosmer female was to get rid of her.

"Five minutes to collect your belongings and we're moving out, got it?"

Five minutes? She only needed two.

 **A/N: I haven't proof-read this or anything, so let me know if there are any inconsistencies or mistakes.**


End file.
